2P Hetalia: Darkest Hour
by Confessions of a Yandere
Summary: When nations around the world begin disappearing, the members of the G8 find themselves up against the largest and most dangerous threat they have ever faced- THEMSELVES.
1. Chapter One: Bump In the Night

Canada sighed, setting his coffee back down on the side table. "I don't know, Mr. Kumajiro... Maybe I shouldn't go to the meeting tomorrow. I doubt anyone would notice whether I was there or not..."

"Hmmm..." The polar bear on the couch beside him picked up the TV remote, flipping to the nature channel. "I'm sure they would notice if you were gone, um... what's your name again?"

"I'm Canada!" the country exclaimed softly, slumping further into the sofa as light from the television reflected off his glasses. He watched images of snow-covered mountains flash on the screen in front of him. I guess I don't really have a choice anyway... he thought. He would have to show up tomorrow whether they noticed or not.

Canada glanced at the clock on the wall. It was getting late. He should probably get to bed soon...

*CRASH*

He jumped suddenly: hair curl standing on end. The loud noise had come from the kitchen.

"America! What are you doing in my house again?" He called in his quiet voice from the couch. "Are you in my fridge?"

No answer.

"America?" Canada got up and walked towards the doorway. "I know it's you! Haven't I told told you a million times not to-"

He reached the kitchen. There was no one there. Then what had the noise been? His eyes fell on a mess of broken shards on the tile floor. Sharp ceramic fragments were scattered everywhere. How had that happened? He knelt down to examine the pieces.

"It's OK, Kumajiro... Its just a broken plate," he called softly.

Again no answer.

"Kumajiro?" Canada whispered hesitantly. Something was wrong.

He straightened up and whirled around, coming face to face with... himself?

Canada stared at the figure in front of him in horror. "W-what? W-who are you?" he stammered in fear.

The twin smirked, cutting into him with piercing red eyes.

"I'm Canada."

Something slammed into the back of his head, sending him falling into darkness.


	2. Chapter Two: Imposter

"Six of us..." Germany slammed his hands down on the table. "There are only six of us. Where is everyone?"

His question echoed through the meeting room, creating a wave of uneasiness throughout the present nations.

"Maybe they were delayed?" Japan offered.

America scratched his head. "That doesn't make sense... England's never been late to a council in his life! He even gets here early just to draw the pictures of us..." He pointed to the blank chalkboard.

"China has been late, yes?" Russia reminded.

The others had to agree.

"Is Canada here?" America gave the room a thorough search with his eyes.

France frowned. "I don't believe so. This is uncanny... There are three countries missing!"

Germany stopped pacing. "We cannot start the meeting without them! I suggest we split up into groups of three and attempt to find the missing nations. Italy! Stop playing with the kitten!"

"Huh?" The italian looked up, still clinging to the furry animal.

"We have a serious issue to resolve here! Japan, you will go with America to find England, Russia and France, you will search for China, and Italy and I will look for Canada!" Germany announced with drill seargant precision. "Everyone will meet back here when their task is accomplished, or their country found! Is that clear?" He paused for breath, both hands on the meeting table.

"Yes, Captain Sir!" Italy saluted with the wrong hand. Germany sighed.

"Alright!" America stood up. "Let's go, Japan!"

"Good luck with search!" Russia called as he and France prepared to leave.

"Be careful everyone," said Germany. An uneasy feeling hung on the edge of his conscience as the three pairs split ways.

...

"Hellooo?" The front door of England's house creaked open as America stuck his head inside. "Something's wrong," he said to Japan.

"Maybe he did not hear us knocking," Japan suggested. "Or maybe he is not home."

They swung the wooden door open fully and stepped inside. It was a large, neatly furnished place: a house of polished floors and draping curtains. A gentleman's house. America remembered it clearly. He had used to visit here, a very long time ago. He brushed away the creeping nostalgia and began walking through the parlor, Japan in tow.

"England?" He called, his voice echoing through the halls.

"Please, do come in." A voice answered. England's voice.

"So he is home after all!" Japan exclaimed. They followed it into the kitchen.

An oven door slammed shut with a bang. There was England, both hands occupied by trays filled with biscuits. He set them down with a clunk.

"England!" America exclaimed. "Why weren't you at the meeting today? You gave us a scare!"

England pulled off an oven mitt. "Oh... the meeting? I completely forgot!" He unfastened the apron around his waist, revealing a pink sweater vest and bright blue bowtie. Smiling widely, he pushed a pan towards them. "Have a biscuit! They're the best I've made!"

America sniffed. "Wow, they actually don't smell that disgusting! That's amazing!"

England took no notice. "I'm so sorry I worried you all. I guess I just got a little carried away..."

Japan couldn't shake the feeling that something was... slightly off. "That does not seem like you, England, to miss such an important meeting."

England's eyebrow twitched as he smiled. "Well," he said in a softer tone. "Everyone makes mistakes."

Japan heard a muffled thud as something hit the floor behind him. "America!" He gasped as he saw his friend collapsed on the ground, a half-bitten biscuit clenched in his motionless hand.

"NO!" He shouted, throwing himself down on the floor beside him.

England laughed.

"What have you done to America?" Japan shouted, grasping the fallen country's wrist and searching frantically for a pulse.

A wide, crazed smile stretched across England's face. "I'm afraid that's not the question." He paced across the kitchen floor. "The question is... what am I going to do to you?" His blue eyes gave off the glazed sheen of madness.

Blue eyes?

Why were they blue?

"You're not England!" Japan's expression hardened. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

"Oh, good, very good!" The imposter clapped mockingly. "But let's not resort to violence, shall we?" He cocked his head to one side. "Then again... it could be entertaining..."

A side door opened; another figure stepped into the room.

Japan stared in horror as their eyes met. How was this possible? He was staring at an exact copy of himself: the only difference a pair of hard, red eyes which glared at him with ferocious intensity. He scrambled to his feet, standing protectively over America's body.

The other Japan smiled with malice, sliding a dark steel sword out of its sheath.

"Careful with that." England tsked. "We wouldn't want to hurt anyone, would we? At least not too badly."

The false Japan lunged forward, their two blades clashed together in a flash of steel. Immediately, Japan felt the tremendous force of his opponent, so great it almost flung his sword straight from his grip. He twisted the blades apart, stepping backwards in shock.

But he had no time to recover. The dark sword darted towards his side in a cut that he was barely able to block, sending him stumbling backwards. He was out of practice. The years of peace had dulled his fighting skill: it was impossible for him to win against such an opponent. He lashed back, but was easily turned aside, and then rained on with blow after blow, forcing him back step by step.

A searing pain stung his cheek as a blur of steel flashed past, almost slicing his head in two. The taste of blood trickled into his mouth. His eyes widened as he saw the sword raised for a final blow, absolute cruelty reflected in the eyes of its bearer.

"I think that's enough, my dear." He heard England's voice behind him. Something cold and flat slid underneath his chin, pricking his neck with an icy pain.

"We could kill him, but both you and I know what that would accomplish..."

Japan stood frozen, his sword was ripped harshly from his grasp.

"Besides," England's voice whispered in his ear. "Keeping him alive will be twice as painful, as soon as we complete our good work..."


	3. Chapter Three: Another Pair of Boots

The first thing he felt was a dull, throbbing pain at the back of his head, the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears like an inscessant drumbeat. The darkness slowly gave way, shadows clearing from his eyes as his surroundings took shape. He was laying on something cold and hard... cement maybe? A pattern of dark stripes ran across the surface: shadows cast by a line of iron bars in the dim light. This was a cell, he realized.

Canada struggled to sit up. Why couldn't he move his arms? He suddenly became aware of the roughness of rope biting into his wrists. That was why. He floundered for a bit, finally dragging himself to a sitting position against the solid wall. What was going on? His head still swam, aching tormentingly.

Then he saw something that made him forget the pain.

"England!" The familiar figure was slumped against an opposite wall inside a prison across the room, both arms suspended in chains above his head. His skin was pale, his face stained with dried blood.

"England! Wake up!" Canada shouted softly.

The country did not stir.

*WHAM*

Something slammed against the bars of the cell, startling him almost out of his wits. He looked up to see a dark figure staring in at him, holding a baseball bat riddled with the metal heads of nails. The man pulled off his shaded glasses, revealing a pair of shining red eyes.

"Recognize me, friend?"

Canada did. He stared up at him with disbelief. Yet something was different...

"You're not America." He almost whispered, frightened to death. "You can't be him."

America leaned in closer, grinning. "You really are shy, aren't you? I like that. So innocent... So weak." He took his hands off the iron bars. "You all are," he laughed. "That's why this is going to be so easy."

...

France and Russia walked in silence through the hallway of China's house, their footsteps echoing on the dark wood floor. The front door had been open, but they hadn't seen or heard a single soul since they had entered through it.

"Where has he gotten to?" France asked his taller companion uneasily. The silence of the house was almost ominous.

The Russian opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by an enormous crash from a room ahead.

"What in God's name was that?" France gasped. They rushed towards the sound, unaware of the echoes of hurried footsteps pounding towards them.

Something careened into Russia's side from around the corner, almost knocking him off his feet.

"Ai-" came China's voice buried in the large man's coat. He tore away frantically and looked up at him, his eyes widening with fear. He cried out sharply, stumbling backwards as he turned to run. Russia caught hold of his wrist.

"China!" He exclaimed. "What is wrong? It's me!"

The smaller country struggled violently. "Let me go! I don't know what you want! Just let go of me!"

"China?" France stepped in. "What's the matter?"

Another pair of boots thudded heavily in the hallway beyond them. The three looked up to see a tall figure advancing towards them, a blackened iron pipe gripped in one hand.

"W-what?" China looked bewildered. "Two of you?"

The two men were certainly identical, yet the other had on a coat of a deep, black color. Even his hair was a darker hue: a light brown instead of blonde.

Russia didn't seem surprised by the copy of himself advancing on them. He released China's wrist, turning to France. "Get him out of here. I can handle this on my own." He turned to face the enemy and pulled out his own metal pipe from beneath his long white coat.

France nodded and grabbed hold of China's arm, pulling him away in a moment of wordless trust. Russia listened in silence to the sound of their feet echoing back down the passage. Then he gave his full attention to the threat before him.

The problem was, he thought as he tightened his grip around his weapon, he wasn't sure if he truly could take care of this on his own...


	4. Chapter Four: A Door With No Lock

"What on earth does this mean?" Germany picked up a piece of shattered plate, turning it over in his hand. He let it fall and stood back up. Italy watched concernedly from behind.

"None of this makes sense. An unlocked front door, no trace of Canada, and a broken mess in the kitchen?"

"What's going on, Germany?" Italy peered up at the tall man's agitated face.

Germany glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"I don't know." he said finally, "I just hope that we can find who we are looking for and get back to the meeting as soon as possible." He tried to block out the feeling of uneasiness that plagued his mind. There was no need for unreasonable fears. He was sure this was all a misunderstanding... that's all.

Italy smiled brightly. "I'm sure the others will find China and England soon! We'd better hurry up if we want to be back in time to meet them!"

Germany grunted as he surveyed the rest of the kitchen. "We should search the rest of the rooms, just to make sure we do not miss anything important... anything that might tell us where Canada has gone."

"Yes, Sir!" Italy saluted enthusiastically. He bounced over to the doorway. "Canada's place sure is big!"

"Don't get lost," Germany warned. "I'll search the west wing. Meet me back here as soon as you are finished. No fooling around!"

The Italian was already in the other room. "Yes, Germany!" He called.

The blonde country sighed uneasily as he turned to walk in the opposite direction.

...LATER...

The small door next to the stairs creaked open when Germany turned the handle, revealing a flight of stairs leading into the darkness below. This must be a cellar, Germany thought. "Italy!" He called behind him. "I'm going down to search the basement!"

There was no answer. "He must be on the second floor already," Germany muttered to himself. Oh well. He would be down and back up quickly enough.

He started down the steps and into the darkness of the room below. Wood creaked beneath his feet. As he reached the bottom, he felt blindly for a light switch on the smooth, cold wall. His fingers found what they were looking for; a dim bulb flickered on above his head.

The room was filled with shapes of all sizes, piles of forgotten objects left to sit in the shadows... abandoned hockey sticks, piles of cracked and old records, the dusty, mounted head of a moose sitting dejectedly in the corner...

He made his way through the storage room, aiming for the outline of a door at the far end. Probably just a maintenance room, but he might as well take a look inside. The lights flickered dangerously, almost causing him to loose his footing. After muttering a curse, he decided to pull out the small flashlight from the pocket of his uniform, clicking it on and shining the thin light at his feet. Better to be safe...

He reached the door and swung it open, flashing his circle of light around the small, bare chamber. There was nothing here.

That was when a pair of arms wrapped around his neck.

The flashlight spun out of Germany's hand, clattering to the floor as strong fingers closed around his throat from behind. He clamped his hands down on the assailant's arms, struggling to loosen the iron hold. The attacker swung him sideways into the concrete wall, bashing the side of his face into the cold surface. Germany let go of one arm, driving his elbow blindly backwards and into the strangers jaw. The arms loosened. He threw them off and spun around. Shadows masked the attacker's face as he stumbled backwards, blocking Germany's fist with his own powerful hand. With a surge of energy, Germany twisted out of his grasp and tackled him to the floor, driving his knee into the other's ribcage while he pulled out his pistol. As he held it to the man's head, he was able to get a good look at the face beneath him.

"What the hell?!" Germany's eyes widened in disbelief.

The face was his... the same hair, the same nose, the same chin. The only difference between them was an ugly scar across his cheek and a violet glint in his identical eyes. The twin grimaced, a trickle of blood building at the corner of his mouth.

Before he could get over the sudden shock, the sound of footsteps pounded behind him. Germany spun around to see two more figures enter the room.

The distraction was enough. He suddenly felt the grip of another hand on the barrel of his pistol, almost wrenching the weapon from his grasp. The other Germany writhed under him and he was heaved to the side, firing twice into the ground as they grappled with each other.

Arms yanked his shoulders backwards. The gun slipped from his fingers. His arms in a lock, he slammed his boot into his twin's fist, crushing his fingers and sending the gun spinning across the floor and into the shadows. He tore himself free of the two others, stumbling hurriedly through the doorway and back into the empty room. He slammed the door shut behind him and glanced at the doorknob. Damnit. There was no lock. He pressed his back against the wooden door and braced himself.

A muffled voice spoke from behind. His voice, he realized. At least, the voice of the man who looked like him. He pressed his ear to the smooth wood.

"You two handle this one. That door should splinter easily enough. I have someone else to deal with..."

A cold wave of horror washed over him. How could he have been so stupid. Italy was upstairs, alone, completely unprotected. Cursing himself, he pulled a cell phone from his pocket and began punching in numbers frantically.

Please, Italy...

Please answer...


	5. Chapter Five: The Phone Call

**AN: I need to put some more effort into this :P  
AND YES I APOLOGISE PROFUSELY FOR TAKING TWO MONTHS TO UPDATE I AM SO SO SORRY DON"T KILL ME.**

* * *

As he made his way back towards the stairs, Italy felt a vibration inside the pocket of his uniform. It startled him for a moment, but then he realized what it was. Pausing in the hallway, he pulled out his phone and answered.

"Hello? Is that you, Germany?"

Germany's voice issued loudly from the speaker. "ITALY! YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE, NOW!"

"Huh?" A blend of confusion and fear crept into his voice. "Germany? What's-"

"THE SCAR! DON'T TRUST ME WITH THE SCAR!"

"What?! I don't understand! What's going on?" There was no answer, only a muffled thud. "Germany? GERMANY?!" The call was dead.

Panic rose in his throat. He felt his feet pounding across wooden floor and down the stairs with alarming speed. He had to find Germany...

Italy reached the kitchen and came to a halt, unsure of where to turn next. The sound of boots came from the doorway behind him. He spun around. Instantly, relief flooded into his mind.

"Germany! You're alright! I was so worried!"

Germany smiled a bit stiffly as he walked towards him. "There you are, Italy. I've been looking for you…"

…

Russia ducked as the metal pipe smashed into the wall above his head, huge chunks of plaster loosening and falling to the floor in a cloud of white dust. He brushed the fragments out of his eyes and braced himself as the next lunge collided with his own pipe. Their weapons locked. Both opponents struggled against the strength of the other, pressure building as their eyes met and froze in an expressionless stare. Russia felt his arms bending backwards, against his will. He twisted his pipe to one side, releasing it from the other's hold. Beads of sweat formed below his pale hairline. His brow furrowed. He had never felt so matched by pure, brute force.

He dodged again, the pipe whipping past his ear. This time he countered, lunging forward to take the double's guard off balance.

The swing collided with flesh and bone, the shock sending his opponent reeling, almost knocked off his feet. He staggered, half-turning as one hand dropped from his weapon to clutch at his side. Russia heard his heavy breathing, the ragged sound mingled with his own breath as they both stood: statues frozen in invisible tension.

"I knew that you were coming." Russia's words seemed to hang in the static air. The other gave no reaction, his face obscured in shadow. "I felt it."

With unexpected swiftness, the figure turned to face him, eyes gleaming with an unnatural purple light. A dark aura began to form as tendrils of violet flame rose from the tips of his fingers.

"We saw our opportunity and took it. You should have stopped us long ago." The shining eyes hardened, the ominous flames intensifying. He slammed his gloved hands together in a fist.

A wave of force rippled from the impact, sending Russia flying across the floor, smashing him against the wall. He collapsed, stifling a groan. His arms felt weak… vivid colors blazed painfully before his eyes as he reached for his weapon.

Footsteps, and then a loud clunk. A booted foot came down on the pipe just before his outstretched fingers with a final, thudding sound. An unsmiling face swam above him.

"Now you will fight me, yes?"

The black boot swept the metal pipe away with a single motion. He heard it clatter yards away. Suddenly, his mind erupted in pain, knife-like agony screaming through his fingers as a black heel ground into them. Vision spinning, he gritted his teeth. He could feel the bones cracking beneath its merciless hold. Finally, the boot lifted. Russia rolled away, clenching his crushed hand that throbbed uncontrollably.

"Fight me!"

He struggled to raise himself up. "You can't kill me," he challenged.

"I can do worse than that."

Hands gripped his coat and dragged him to his feet. Russia caught a glimpse of cruel eyes, just before a dark fist smashed into his jaw. He collapsed against the wall, steadying himself a moment before he launched back at his opponent, his good hand tightened into a fist. But before he could repay the blow, a dark wall of purple smoke crashed into him like a wave.

"Stop playing. You know what I want from you."

Russia wiped a gloved hand beneath his nose, feeling his own blood smearing with the motion. A fire seemed to rise within his chest, sudden anger sparking in the back of his mind. A purple haze danced in the corners of his eyes. _Kolkolkolkolkolkolkokolkol…_

His twin smiled. A malevolent smile: the corners of his mouth twisting gruesomely.

"Very good."

…

"I don't think this is right!" China pulled his arm from France's grip as they raced through the hallway. "We shouldn't be running away!"

France didn't reply.

China came to a halt behind him. "I'm going back to help—"

"NO!" France whirled around, his face crossed with panic. "We have no idea what is going on back there! If anyone can handle this, it's _him_." He glanced over China's shoulder to the hall behind.

China still looked anxious. "I don't understand… how can there be two of them?"

"I-I don't know. We need to get out of here. And contact the others! Maybe they will know what on earth is happening!"

"I'll call Japan." China pulled out his cell phone and dialed in a hurried number. The tone sounded once… twice… three times…

"Come on…" France muttered.

"Hello?" A muffled voice sounded from the speaker. It was Japan's.

"Japan! Thank goodness! It's China!"

"China! What is going on?"

"It is hard to explain… There are two Russia's in my house and one of them attacked me and we ran away but—what is going on?!"

There was a moment of silence. "You'd better come here right away. Russia's copy is not the only one."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"We've already run into a few of them, America and I. We managed to escape. But there's no time to explain now! Meet us back at the meeting building. I have something important to show you."

"What? Show us what?" France grabbed the phone out of China's hand, but it was too late. The call was cut off.

…

Japan watched in silence as his lookalike shut the phone with a snap, smiling cruelly as he slid it back across the table. The coldness of metal pricked beneath his jaw in a menacing reminder.

"Well then!" said England's voice above his ear. "It sounds as if we have an appointment to make! I do love appointments!" He twisted the knife slightly, causing Japan to stiffen as it traced up and down his throat.

"It's time to take care of these two." His double stepped forward until they were face to face, merely inches away. Their eyes joined in an unpleasant stare.


	6. Chapter Six: Search and Destroy

**AN: _Deepest apologies_ for taking so long... I swear I'll buckle down and start updating more frequently, just hang in there. Anyways, here's chapter six. Thanks for being so patient, and don't forget to leave me a review! Things are going to get interesting _very_ soon...**

* * *

The wooden door jolted violently as Germany pressed his full weight against it, forced to drop the cell phone in order to keep it from caving in. His only hope of warning Italy lay in pieces on the floor. Already the wooden surface was beginning to give way… he couldn't hold it for much longer. It would only be a matter of time before the tension became too much.

Without the glow of his flashlight, the room was wrapped in formless shadows, punctured only by a sharp beam of light from beneath the doorway. His eyes roved wildly around the small space, suddenly settling on a sharp indent of shadow in a corner of the light.

*WHAM*

Germany grimaced as the wood heaved forcefully behind his back. He focused his eyes back on the object, tracing its long form through the darkness. A pipe of some sort… or maybe a curtain rod? A plan began to form.

*WHAM*

Another lurch of the door. He had to act now.

With calculated precision, Germany threw himself at the object, hands clenching cold metal as he stumbled upright and spun around. The sturdy rod weighed heavily in his hands.

Already he could hear the two pairs of feet steadying, preparing for another charge. This time, he would be ready.

The door burst open with an enormous crash as bits of wood splintered and scattered across the floor. The two figures stumbled inside, caught off guard in a moment of surprise. Germany lunged towards the opening. His hand closed around the handle of the door and slammed it closed behind him, shutting in his assailants and wedging the metal rod across the doorframe. The handle rattled, jammed by the bar lodged underneath. The blockade held. It wasn't perfect, but it would work for now.

Losing no time, Germany sprinted up the dim stairway.

"Italy!" He called through the house. "Italy! Where are you?!"

Nothing answered but echoes.

He swung the door to the kitchen open and stopped. The sinking feeling of panic washed over him as he saw the signs of a struggle. Italy was nowhere in sight. Whatever had happened in this room…

He didn't want to think about it.

All he knew was that he had been too late.

The thought seemed to jar him back to reality, his rationality flooding back as he stood amid the wreckage. He had too little time to act this way, he realized. Italy was out there, somewhere…

In a sudden snap of determination, he tore out of the kitchen, making his way towards the front door. He found it wide open, slightly swinging in an evening breeze. Germany flung himself through the doorway and into the outside world, a single thought racing through his mind.

He would find Italy if he had to search to the ends of the earth.

…

Italy sprinted through the dimming trees, stumbling over roots and branches as his feet took him deeper and deeper into the forest. He didn't know how long he had been running, but fear and confusion drove him on. He was so tired, and scared. Too scared to cry, too scared to think, too scared to do anything but continue running. That was all he was good for, anyhow. Running away.

He didn't even realize he was falling until his body hit the ground. Something had caught his foot, and he suddenly found himself sprawled on the forest floor, face and hands throbbing from the impact. Everything was still. He cringed momentarily, listening for the pursuing footsteps behind him. But they didn't come. Italy sat up and looked at his hands: they were smeared with dirt, as was his uniform. Maybe he had gotten away… maybe he was safe now.

Italy crawled through the dirt and dead leaves and into a niche between two trees. He huddled against the trunk, shivering and alone. What was he supposed to do? He wished someone was there to tell him. He imagined Germany pulling him up by the hand, telling him to brush the dirt off his uniform, ordering him to run laps, or do pushups, or stop fooling around. But Germany wasn't there.

Tears began to stream down his cheeks. What had happened? He still didn't understand. All he could think about was the scar… the scar and the horrible eyes. He had been frightened. He had run away. He always ran away.

Evening slowly turned to dusk as Italy sat in the shadows and cried.


End file.
